


All Along

by RembrandtsWife



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Hospitals, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Series: Rumi and Shams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A J/B moment inspired by the poetry of Rumi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Along

The minute I heard my first love story,  
I started looking for you, not knowing  
how blind that was. 

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.  
They're in each other all along. 

The hospital room smelled of disinfectant and medicine and, very faintly, blood. Each beep and boop of the monitors mounted above the bed was a separate blow to his hearing, overwhelming as a stroke on a giant gong. The walls were painted a shade of pink that reminded him of Pepto-Bismal, only the color induced nausea rather than relieving it. And that was a really cheesy copy of Van Gogh's sunflowers opposite the bed; couldn't they have come up with anything... more original? 

If it was this bad for him, how would it be for Jim when he woke up? 

Blair squeezed the long, fine hand that was wrapped in both of his. It was a little warmer than it had been an hour ago, when he took up his vigil. He was so lucky they had let him stay; it had taken his pleading, and Simon's, and Naomi's, all put together. He wasn't family; he wasn't a wife; he wasn't the hospital chaplain, who was some kind of Protestant minister who'd given him a really dirty look for holding Jim's hand. 

He was nobody special. He was Blair Sandburg. He was the man Jim Ellison loved above all else. 

He looked soberly at the pale, still face of his lover, framed by stretched white pillowcase. Jim's head was sunk deep into the too-soft pillows; Blair knew they were too soft, knew Jim would complain because they were foam-filled, not feather pillows. He knew this man, knew what he needed, what he wanted. Intuition told him that Jim was now asleep rather than unconscious, that the anesthetic had worn off and his body's own systems had taken over. 

Anesthetic. That which prevents one from experiencing beauty, or pleasure. 

Jim would recover. The doctors had been totally confident, in an almost stereotypical arrogant-doctor kind of way. The two bullets had come dangerously close to his heart, one had even nicked the pericardium, but the shock trauma helicopter had come through, the surgery had been a success. Jim would be weak for a while, but he would recover. 

If Blair hadn't nudged him out of the way, he might be dead. 

"I paid you back, man," Blair said aloud. His voice echoed strangely in the ugly little room. "For all those times you've saved my life. I've finally paid you back." 

The sparse eyelashes fluttered. Blair held his breath as Jim slowly, achingly, turned his head, to look at him with wet blue eyes that were even paler than usual. 

"You saved me first, Chief." 

The hand in Blair's hands squeezed, weakly but undeniably. With a sob, Blair let out the held breath and bent to kiss his lover on the forehead, spilling tears on Jim's face. 

"I know, Jim. I know." 

 


End file.
